Page 22 of Devil Inside

He follows us, his hand in ours. The very warmth of it radiates out from his skin and into our own. His pulse picks up, quickens, and we wish to glimpse into his heart. Drift from one chamber to the next, floating along with the flow of blood—his blood—a circulatory tour of those darkened corners of his very being, like wandering through the empty halls of an abandoned house. What’s waiting for us inside? What treasures might we find within?

Look at it—look at him—burning so bright in this dark light, tendrils of it radiating off from him in phosphorescent waves. A negative energy. Ultraviolet light. A solar flare of skin.

He’s absolutely blinding.

The air is much cooler outside. We enjoy it. The chill. This brittle shift in the atmosphere sends a ripple of gooseflesh over our skin. Our breath spreads out before us.

His breath spills out from his lips, as well, as if his soul is escaping from his mouth. We want him. This man’s warmth. To absorb it, somehow. Soak it in. Make it our heat as well.

“Where to?” he asks.

Helland back.

“There’s another bar down the block,” he offers. “It’s a lot quieter. I know the bartender there and he pours pretty deep...”

We lure him further out into the night, into the cold. There is an alley alongside the music hall. A shadowed space of brick and cobblestone. The bare bulb overhead is a pale yellow, curdled cream, illuminating little. It only enhances the shadows, like pouring milk in coffee. The light here doesn’t obliterate the murk as much as coagulates it. Thickens it.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks.Said the fly to the spider.

We don’t answer.

The detritus of delirious celebration litters the paved alleyway, discarded cans and bottles, the glint of green glasslike eyes watching us from the dark. The rats. The vermin.

Let them watch. Let them all see what we are about to do. A carnal carnival.

“Where are we going?”

We drag him into the alley. Lure him into the shadows. We are alone here.

I think we’re alone now,the song goes,there doesn’t seem to be anyone around...

He is ours now.

All ours.

Good.

Now.

Now.

Now.

We press him against the brick wall. It takes him by such surprise, our strength, our fortitude, that he lets out the slightest cry. Just a hint of air, such a frantic gasp escaping his lips. The steam from his breath spills out and we’re suddenly saddened at the fact that we can’t breathe it into our own lungs. Inhale what he expends, as if the very oxygen warmed by his lungs had a flavor. Something to savor.Waste not, want not,these people say. Words of wisdom from those who refuse to observe their own adages.

What is it with this one? We can’t get a sense of him. Taste him. He perplexes us.

Confuses us.

“Hey, now,” he says, and resists our advances at first, startled by our attack, but there is nothing he can do now. He is powerless against us. The body is weak, always weak.

He eventually relents. We kiss him, deeper now. He’s letting go. Opening up. We sense the slackening of sinew, his muscles loosening, letting go and letting us take control.

Look at that smile. The blade of his lips. We could cut ourselves on that grin. Our mouth is against his and we swim through his lips, wrestle against his tongue.

He is ours, all ours.

The world is ours.